


avoir le mal de quelqu'un

by caramia (asphodelgrimoire)



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: F/M, Fanny is an Angel, Fluff, Honeymoon, M/M, Non-Sexual Praise Kink, Sam Howe is a Grade-A Dick, Sumner finally gets the Love and Care he deserves, lil bit of angst, on charles and fanny's part, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphodelgrimoire/pseuds/caramia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he simply enjoys the exterior of the cabin, he adores the interior. To Henry, he’s sure, it’s an insult to his very existence, but Charles has never had an eye for art. The barren nature of it is appealing to his desire for simplicity. The furniture is comfortable and sparse. He explores the house like a child might, peeking through every threshold before entering, then fiddling with every item he finds. Most of what he discovers is cobwebs, but he looks in every possible place anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	avoir le mal de quelqu'un

**Author's Note:**

> oh god
> 
> so this is my first 19th century fic ever...............
> 
> \- probably a BUNCH of inaccuracies sorry  
> \- but the quotes from the letters are real  
> \- not that well-written also sorry about that  
> \- but it satisfies my need to see charles sumner happy and loved so
> 
> enjoy!!!

When Charles gets the letter, he can only wonder if it’s meant in jest.

 _I earnestly hope you will be able and willing to accompany us,_ Fanny insists. He detects a modicum of pity in the words (which does wound him in some mysterious way,) but more than that, the thought of being the lone intruder upon Henry’s _honeymoon_ is mortifying.

He stops right at that sentence and begins a note cordially declining the invitation.

After the first word, he pauses, takes a second look at the letter.

_Henry promises to appear at the office by 11 o’clock and hopes to find you with your trunk packed._

Damn him.

Charles paces. He thinks and thinks and thinks even harder- trying to see the trip in a positive light- but he can’t muster up any enthusiasm whatsoever. The wooden panels beneath his feet creak so loudly, he almost doesn’t hear Henry’s signature lackadaisical knocking at the door. He takes his time answering it.

“Packed?” Henry asks as soon as Charles is in view.

“No,” he replies curtly.

“What is the wait?”

Charles purses his lips as Henry smiles at him. He dreads the upcoming trip, surely, but it’s ill-spirited to seem resentful when his friend’s excitement is so apparent. He doesn’t say a word, just packs the small trunk that he has with him- shirts, trousers, underclothes, a few nib pens even though he knows Henry is going to scold him if he tries to write Sam, a book, and in a moment of vanity, a small bottle of fragrance that has been sitting in his desk for God knows how long.

When he finally collects himself and gets to the door, Henry is still there, leaning comfortably against the doorframe. He visibly quells the urge to laugh at Charles’ solemn demeanor.

“It’s my honeymoon, dear, not my funeral,” he says, and although it’s meant as a joke, Charles bristles in offense. He doesn’t have to say anything for Henry to understand.

“Precisely.”

-

The trek is a long one, but not altogether unpleasant. Charles looks to the side at passing scenery, while Henry and Fanny are wrapped up in each other on the other end of the seat.

“Charles,” she says, and he turns in response to see their bodies twisted to face one another, their fingers clasped. He suddenly feels sick. “Charles,” Fanny repeats. He knows why Henry loves her, he really does. “Aren’t you excited to be in the mountains?”

He isn’t. “Yes, very much so,” he says, smiling flatly. He holds a kerchief to his mouth as he coughs, and Henry’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “Perhaps the air will help my lungs.”

“I do hope so,” Fanny says, and takes one of her hands from Henry’s, rests it on Charles’ splayed fingers. He looks away again and loses track of the time passing. It’s still early when the carriage arrives at the inn they’ll be staying at- more of a luxurious log cabin than anything- but Charles already feels the need to sleep nagging at the corners of his mind. He gets out with a weight on his chest, like lead.

Henry pays the driver briefly while Fanny and Charles inspect their lodgings.

“So? What do you think?” she asks, taking his arm. “We reckoned you’d like a more secluded spot.”

It’s surrounded by trees, small enough to suggest that it’s a home rather than a hotel. Scenic, as opposed to the high, yellowed buildings of Boston. It’s pleasant. He nods, but she continues to look to him for an answer. “Beautiful. How did you find it?”

“Well, my father-“ Henry rolls his eyes at this, unseen by Fanny. “-one of his good friends and partners at work told him of a house in the mountains that he’d purchased with full amenities, but never put to use. The man, of course very amicable, agreed to let us stay for the season.”

“Tell me, beloved, is there anything your father _cannot_ do?” Henry asks, and Charles allows himself a genuine smile.

“No, I don’t think there is,” Fanny looks back, utterly serious, before lifting her skirts to head down the path to the cabin. Charles snorts when she is far ahead of them.

Henry watches her go with a wistful gaze. “Nathan Appleton, a godly man, indeed,” he says. Charles follows beside him as they walk, and raises a brow at this. Henry turns to him with an explanation. “He wants to buy the house that I’ve rented, and buy the undeveloped land in front of it so that no one can settle in our way.”

“Do you think he’d buy the residence next to it as well, so that I could live near you? Perhaps a toolshed?”

Henry only laughs and shakes his head, bumping Charles’ shoulder with his.

-

If he simply enjoys the exterior of the cabin, he adores the interior. To Henry, he’s sure, it’s an insult to his very existence, but Charles has never had an eye for art. The barren nature of it is appealing to his desire for simplicity. The furniture is comfortable and sparse. He explores the house like a child might, peeking through every threshold before entering, then fiddling with every item he finds. Most of what he discovers is cobwebs, but he looks in every possible place anyway.

It’s when he’s reached the end of his exploration that he realizes there’s a single bedroom. Even more peculiar, a single bed. He supposes they only didn’t think to look at the cabin beforehand. It’s their honeymoon, and as such, he can’t pass judgment or complain. He can, however, sleep on the lounge chair.

When he arrives back in the foyer, Henry is stepping away from a hug with Fanny, and he grins when he spots Charles, steps towards him. He plucks a kerchief out of his pocket and begins to rub the soot off Charles’ face, while Fanny furiously works to dust his hair and clothes of cobwebs.

“Have fun?” Henry asks fondly.

“Perhaps,” he answers, satisfied but exhausted by his adventure.

They glance at each other with mirrored smiles, and Fanny grabs Charles’ face to bring him down to where she can press her lips to his forehead. She angles him then to Henry, who does the same, before she lets him be. A flush spreads high above Charles’ collar.

He can’t think of anything to say in response, so he stays quiet, looking between them periodically.

“I’m certain you’re hungry,” Fanny says, fingering the top button on her dress. It is a beautiful dress, really. “Henry wants _veal_ but it spoils too quickly for my tastes. I’ll put something together with what we’ve brought.”

Charles nods, and Henry laughs gently at her emphasis.

“Yes, well, while you are doing that, we’ll go to the springhouse,” he says. He looks at Charles pointedly and rummages around for a vessel before dragging him out of the cabin without another word.

“Why are we going to the springhouse?” Charles inquires as he is taken by the wrist.

“To get Fanny water for her cooking, of course,” Henry replies, then looks to him again with an indiscernible expression. “And to ask a few questions of my own.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Are you well, Charlie?” Henry, ever earnest, matches his gait step for step to study his expression.

There’s no sense in lying to Henry, who always sees right through him- like glass. Still, he tries to close the curtains. “Excluding the cough, there is nothing that I should concern myself with.”

“And yet?” Henry prompts.

Charles exhales, solemn. “And yet, I can’t help feel I’m being discarded.”

It is silent for a moment. His friend frowns in contemplation. “Is this about Sam?”

 _Not exclusively,_ Charles muses. “I suppose it is,” he says instead, squaring his shoulders. He cannot understand how it’s so obvious, and he says so.

“Of course it is,” Henry replies, rolling up his sleeves as they come to the springhouse. “You wear your heart upon your sleeve. It is a weakness, my dear, but there are no medicines for this, I’m afraid.”

His jaw tightens at the statement. Charles goes quiet and steps into the house, pumping the lever until the vessel is full, while Henry watches him carefully over his shoulder. He pays no mind.

On the way back, Henry dips his cloth from earlier into the water and scrubs Charles’ face with it, laughing when he scowls pitifully.

“What’s bothering you with Howe?”

“Do you enjoy my suffering?” he asks in lieu of a response, and Henry shakes his head.

“Not at all. I merely want to help a friend,” And then a sharp pause. “What has he said to you?”

Charles bites his tongue and lies. “Nothing. He’s said nothing to me.”

 _Then would I tell you how delightful it is to be married,_ Sam had said.

Henry hums, almost pleased. “That is the problem.”

“Yes,” he replies hesitantly, becoming progressively unclear with where this will end up.

“Why is that a problem?”

“You know why.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Henry says, playful.

Rather than glare or laugh, Charles turns to him like he’s grown a second head, lips parted in shock. “You wouldn’t.”

Henry’s brows furrow. “I wouldn’t what?”

His knees nearly give out. “You wouldn’t make me say it, would you? You-”

“No! God, Charles, no. I won’t. I just wanted to know- why _him_? It’s no matter, in any case, you don’t need to answer that,” He starts to laugh anxiously as Charles continues staring at him with a sort of nauseous anticipation. He quiets as they near the cabin, puts his empty hand on the small of Charles’ back as they cross the threshold.

Fanny is scowling at a sack of flour when they sit down. “Took you long enough. How was the walk?”

“ _Pas très bien,_ ” Henry laments just as she notices Charles’ pallor. Fanny presses her hand to his forehead and looks to her husband accusatorily.

“I had enough water for porridge,” she says curtly, walking away only to come back with a bowl and spoon. Henry opens his mouth to speak, but at her expression, it shuts hard enough that Charles can hear his teeth grind. “Eat. It’ll help,” Fanny tells him, gentle and understanding. “Henry, if you could fetch some wood for the stove?”

Charles hears the door swing closed, feels her squeeze his shoulders. Despite his sudden anxiety, he’s able to enjoy eating his fill. (He always has.) When Henry is back, and the fire is crackling in the back of his brain, he feels measurably better. He hates answering questions.

-

He eats again later, and can’t be blamed for it. Henry advises him to dip one of his fritters into molasses, and he inhales about six more that way, while Fanny smiles like an endeared mother at his sticky hands and bright eyes.

The other portion of the day is spent reading the book he brought, while the newly-weds discuss their plans for the upcoming weeks. Charles supposes this will be his last day of rest in a long while. He doesn’t bother listening to the discourse, figuring that it’s first and foremost their decision.

“Enjoying yourself, my dear?” Henry shocks him out of his reading with four words and a hand on his neck.

“Sure,” he replies, but as always, he says more than he wants to. “It makes me feel like a wife when you call me that.”

It only occurs to him on the last few words that he is noting this in front of Henry’s actual wife. Charles acquires the urge to fling himself off the Tremont House as soon as he gets back to Boston.

Henry withdraws his hand and stammers with wide eyes.

Fanny, in turn, materializes behind him. “Do you dislike it?”

“Not necessarily,” Charles says, quiet and unsure what the right answer would be.

“Husbands and wives are not all that different, I suppose,” she lilts, turning her gaze to Henry’s pointedly. She smiles, bright. “You are dear to us.”

“Yes,” Henry says slowly, bewildered. “You are.”

Charles doesn’t know how to respond to that. He reads the same sentence over and over again until his eyes cross, and they eventually go back to the table.

-

When night comes, Charles stands and asks Henry if he could get a blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the lounge chair,” he replies, not looking up from his own book.

“There’s a single bedroom,” Charles protests.

“I know. However, if you aren’t opposed to it, I don’t see a reason not to stay with us,” Henry says, and he finally looks up. The room is dark. “There’s nothing indecent about it.”

Charles almost tries to argue again, but upon remembering the crick in his neck after sleeping at his desk for a number of nights in a row, he relents. Henry leads the way, while Charles fetches clothes to sleep in from his trunk. He shuffles, embarrassed, into the bedroom.

“Ah,” Fanny says simply from the bed, already in her chemise. She waves a hand at Henry to get his attention for some ungodly reason, then busies herself with brushing her own hair.

Henry makes a noise, walks to him, and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, manic.

“Helping you get to sleep on time,” Henry says, and continues as far as Charles will allow. “She’s not watching,” he assures, when Charles looks in Fanny’s direction with concern as he’s shrugging his shirt off.

“I’m not watching,” she echoes.

He hurries to get his nightshirt on, Henry helping to button it with deft fingers (as opposed to his own fumbling ones.) Charles can feel the warmth of his hands with every brush.

“Perfect,” Fanny says, when he moves one hand to Charles’ ribs.

“An angel in his most unassuming form,” Henry agrees, leads him to bed and has him settle in between them. Charles finds this unfathomably indecent, despite reassurances from both sides of him. But he needs sleep, and it won’t be the first time he’s caved under the weight of Henry’s smile.

He turns toward his friend once under the blanket, who doesn’t hesitate burying his face in Charles’ neck. Fanny grabs a handful of his sleeve and presses her nose in between his shoulder blades. He’s surprised to realize that aside from this, she keeps a safe distance from him. She must know.

“Hm,” Henry inhales deeply against his skin, and it tickles. “You smell good.”

He snorts, the tension draining out of his body as he relaxes into the sheets. “I would hope so.”

Fanny follows in her husband’s actions. He can feel her smile behind him. “He’s right. Like coffee and lavender. Fitting for such a sweet man,” she coos.

Charles presses his burning face into the bedroll at that, while Henry musses his hair. They both laugh at him, gentle enough that he isn’t utterly mortified. He gripes under his breath, and Henry presses his lips to Charles’ neck in a chaste kiss. He squirms for a moment, not in true protest, and softens under the attention shortly thereafter.

He conveniently forgets Fanny’s presence until she begins to massage his scalp, and doesn’t acknowledge her even then, only coming to his senses when her hair cascades into his peripheral vision. Charles gasps, some part of it being that he’s more comfortable than he’s been in years, but most of it being shock. She must resent him, surely, with Charles letting her husband kiss him as he would kiss her.

He’s about to be chivalrous, offer an apology for corrupting Henry in whatever way he has, slink down to the lounge chair and make do without any quilt.

“Go on, Henry,” Fanny urges, gentle, and the words die in his throat.

In less than a second, Henry’s lips are on his. Charles nearly sputters, but his friend withdraws momentarily to kiss the corners of his mouth before returning. It’s perverse, how easily he’s coaxed onto his back and into opening up for Henry. He doesn’t feel that way even so, with Fanny smoothing his hair out of his face, and Henry _thoroughly_ enjoying himself. Charles moans, despite a lingering voice that tells him he should be more resistant. He doesn’t listen to it. He’s tired and warm.

Henry kisses him a few more times, worries Charles’ bottom lip between his teeth, and regrettably lets him be. Charles whines, undignified, and Fanny laughs at him. He turns to her and wraps his arms around her waist to pull her close. She makes a small noise of surprise, but only pets the top of his skull in response. Henry, however, molds himself to Charles’ back, rather than trying to minimize contact, and digs his thumbs into the muscle until his friend purrs.

“Sweet,” Fanny reiterates, cradling him to her bosom.

“Very much so,” Henry agrees, and kisses her before snuffing the candle on the table.

Charles lay in the darkness for less than a minute, quickly lapsing into a serene sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me @ transaaronburr.tumblr.com
> 
> also sumner is likely gay and ace but u know he and fanny would cuddle SO HARD


End file.
